


What the Future Holds

by Captains_Orders



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captains_Orders/pseuds/Captains_Orders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't fix the past, but maybe he can help the future.<br/>Time Machine 2002 AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Future Holds

**Author's Note:**

> This AU came to me and wouldn't leave me alone. The concept just really worked.  
> I actually have most of this story planned out and hopefully I can get updates out at least once a month.  
> First chapter/prologue is an absolute angst fest that may or may not be reached again.  
> Also if there are any other tags I can add let me know, and I'm choosing to stick to the safe side with rating just in case.

Jessie’s smile could rival the sun, and Sprog’s laughter is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. The road trip had been her idea; she’d been planning it since his medical discharge, and now that that he was able to walk again, albeit not without difficulty, it had been the perfect time. Their current stop is a street festival in some small town in the middle of nowhere. It’s the first time he’s smiled so freely since the accident, watching Sprog ogle everything shiny, and Jessie’s sweet voice pointing things out at his side.

“This is,” He pauses for a long time, trying to think of a good word to describe how he’s feeling. He comes up short. “nice. Yeah, nice.” Jessie laughs and leans her head against his shoulder as they walk. 

“It’s wonderful.”

“You happy?” He asks. She just smiles and kisses his cheek.

“Yes I’m happy, 

“Hungry?” 

“Yes, that too.” She says with a laugh and a bump of their shoulders before calling out to their son. “Why don’t we find somewhere to sit while your daddy gets us lunch.” Sprog is back by her side immediately, tugging at her skirt at the mention of food.

“Hey!” She calls to him when he’s only a few feet away. He turns back to see her hands going through the now familiar motion. It brings a smile to his face and he repeats the gesture back, slow and clumsy but true. 

He’s smiling when he sets out in search of food, content in a way he hasn’t been since before his accident. He told Jessie things were nice, but it was more than that, he was happy. He picks the first food stand that comes into view and orders with only half of his attention, his thoughts still focused on Sprog’s laugh and Jessie’s signs.  


A scream rings sharp and clear, turning heads and echoed by some in the crowd. The bag in his hand falls without notice and he’s running. His knee is agony, but he ignores it, runs faster until his breath is wheezing and he’s staggering to a stop where the crowd is thick and loud. He pushes through and the sight that greats him shatters his world to pieces. After that, everything is a blur and he recalls nothing but the fact that his wife and son are dead. 

He retreats into himself, hiding in his garage turned workshop and tinkering endlessly with scraps and parts as if somehow he can repair his broken heart with metal. It’s on one of the bad days, the ones that are filled with violent flashes of that terrible moment now months behind him, that he conceives the idea to change things. He’s worked his own repairs on the Interceptor since he got her, losing himself in the comfort of his faithful machine. Now he thinks she can help him in a new way, a better way, be made into something that can fix this mess he’s caused. With one last reverent swipe across the hood of the black on black finish he sets to work, unsure of exactly what he plans to do.  
It doesn’t take long for the work to consume him.

Goose tries to bring him back to the world, he fails, but he tries none the less. His old friend visits while he works endlessly in the garage, bringing food he hardly touches and starting conversations he doesn’t partake in. He’s too focused on his task to take notice of his friend, it’s not fair and he knows it, but he also doesn’t care. He’s so close to achieving the impossible he can taste it. He scrapped his car for the parts months ago, the old V8 engine is now rumbling in a different machine beneath the old driver’s seat and scrap metal. 

“You need to stop this.” He says one day when he comes to see him, finding another untouched plate of food on the work bench. 

“I can’t.” He mutters back, most of his attention on the bolt he’s screwing in. There’s and angry huff followed by a load shattering crash. He flinches at the sound, but doesn’t look away from his work.

“You can’t keep living like this, Max! Look at you, you don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you just tinker with that thing all day every day!” 

“I’m trying to fix things!” He shouts back, standing with difficulty and whirling on Goose. The moment Goose sees his face the anger dissipates from his features, replaced with a pity he doesn’t want, doesn’t need.

“You can’t fix the past, Max. You just can’t. Look at yourself. When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“I don’t need to sleep, I need to work.”

“On what?! You can’t just build something and change history, it doesn’t work like that, it’s not possible.”

Max only grunts in reply, turning back to his work with renewed vigor. He can change things, he will. He hears Goose sigh behind him, the creak of his boots as he shifts and paces behind him. 

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep on like this.” He says finally, once again still.

“Doesn’t matter.” Max grumbles as he throws himself back to work on the Interceptor. There’s a sharp intake of breath and then a long silence.

“Damn it, Max, you think she would have wanted this?!” 

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare bring Jessie into this!” He snaps, the anger back in full force.

“You’re killing yourself! And for what? A god damn impossibility!”

“Fuck off.” He grunts, he doesn’t have time for this. Again Goose deflates, anger giving way to his own grief.

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself, Max. And I’m done trying to talk some sense into you. I’ll be back next week, hopefully there’s something to come back to.” With that he’s gone, the door slamming behind him. Max is still for a long time, trying to come to terms, but soon he’s back to work, unwilling to waste any more time.

He finishes in less than a week, desperate to complete his work before he has to face Goose and his own guilt. He hasn’t eaten much in the last four days, has slept even less, but he’s finished. A reverent hand runs along the rough metallic shell of his creation, crude and black but surely functional. All that science in school seems to have finally paid off, he’s done it. The magnitude of the moment is not lost on him; he caresses each carefully placed part with utmost care and respect. This could change, this could fix. The Interceptor is what he calls it, and he hopes the name fits as he’s intended. There’s a picture of Jessie and Sprog on the makeshift dash, and he keeps his eyes on their smiling faces as he begins the startup process. It’s loud, the V8 engine roaring along with all its modifications and the spinning whirl of the machine itself as it charges. Sound, light, hope, is the order of his thoughts, and with his eyes locked on those of his lost family, he hits the button that will take him back to where it all fell apart.

Sometimes he sees it, too far to reach but just close enough to witness the brutality. He screams himself hoarse every time he sees it, every time he’s just a moment too late, every time he cradles broken bodies in his arms. He goes back so many times he loses track of the number, loses part of himself each time, can feel his mind cracking in time with his heart with each failure. In his own time he’s not sure of the date, but everything remains the same, unchanged and unmoved since he started. Fists pounding against the dash in grief in fury he lets out a long yell before settling back in the seat and returning his focus to the picture on the dash. He can’t stop, he won’t, so he goes through the familiar motions and revs the machine until it sings and sends him off once more. He knows something’s wrong immediately, the fuel gauge turned time compass is spinning madly instead of back, but it’s too late to stop it.


End file.
